


Album

by AnUnknownForeignBeauty



Category: Tintin (Comics), Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Origin Story, Past, Tintin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-05
Updated: 2011-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 06:41:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19101787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnUnknownForeignBeauty/pseuds/AnUnknownForeignBeauty
Summary: What shapes one's future? Past. Before becoming the famous reporter Tintin has also a past that shapes his future. May be a sad one.





	Album

"What shapes someone's future?"

"Past."

He got the same answer from each and every person he asked the question. But what about his past that would shape his future?

The only memory of his past was an old, battered photograph, turning yellow with time; the faces in the people inside could hardly be identified. His grip around the small piece of paper tightened as he looked into the people looking back to him from the old photo- a happy family cradling a small child in the middle. The child's brilliant eyes exactly matched with the man with long face, nicely shaped mustache dressed in pinned suit. He narrowed his eyes to take the clear look of the man. The time had blurred the details of his face leaving only the outlines behind. Still from the vague features he could tell that he had a brilliant appearance. His eyes matched his bright blue ones. He knew who he was- his father.

Tintin had a vague memory of his father. Looking deep inside his memory he could only remember a bright face, a warm smile shining from the above his cradle. An affectionate voice was calling his name "Tintin..Tintin…"

It was not his real name in papers. It was only a nick name that his father gave him in some forgotten past. He closed his eyes, trying to remember the face he always cherished to see.

No, nothing came out from the depth of his memory.

He couldn't even remember his face.

Whenever he asked his mother about him, she cringed with fear, a drop of tear rolled on her cheek. She didn't tell anything.

"When he'll come back?" the four years old boy used to ask. The young woman wrapped her baby son in the safe nest of her embrace and whispered "He will come back soon."

And Tintin always waited for him, standing by the window, alone. He watched the snow fall, waiting for his father to come back with Christmas present.

It was the end of Second World War. He watched his playmates running in their father's wide embrace who just returned from the war, playing, laughing. And the line of the returning soldiers ended. The airport became deserted. Tintin walked back home, alone.

He rushed near his mother who just returned home from the coal factory, sweaty, dusty from the day's work. She gave him a hopeful look. But the next moment Tintin's sad eyes made her to scoop up the little boy in her arms. She kissed his puffy cheeks and smiled "He'll come back with many gifts."

That night she told the story of the brave young man who was his father. He was a young journalist, with his stars shining higher. He never feared all the bad people around him. He published all the stories, unmasking the faces of the people behind the scene.

'What is he doing in the battle field?" Tintin used to ask. His mother smiled "Yes, darling, there are many bad people who are trying to kill good ones. Your father is just trying to find them." Her smile shined brighter than the moon outside.

But four years old Tintin didn't knew that the stories his father published all over the world , made him the wanted man to opposition. He didn't knew that the price of his head was more valuable than gold. He didn't know that their family fortune was almost finished. The coal mine in which his mother worked to feed him was killing her slowly.

He only watched her becoming pale, losing weight day by day, coughing. The baby boy couldn't do anything but hold her with his little arms.

His father never returned.

Only his old yellow overcoat and a small piece of paper returned to his family.

The little Tintin watched his mother crying, all night but he never knew that her weak body wasn't able to bear such a burden of grief. She died.

The next week Tintin was moved to Belgian Orphanage with his only belongings- a battered photograph and an old letter from his father.

A drop of tear rolled from his ocean blue eyes. He didn't try to wipe it away. The cold morning air swirled around him sending a chill through his body. Tintin gently wrapped the old yellow overcoat around him. It felt so warm, so comfortable. It belonged to his father who was once a fearless reporter who wasn't afraid of unleashing the truth. He took a deep breath; the warmth wrapped him from head to toe, sending an unknown strength through his body.

"You can do it, son."

Tintin opened his eyes. His eyes travelled to the yellow piece of paper that he was holding for a long time.

_Whatever happens to me, I'm not afraid of telling the truth._

The last words from his father. Tintin's blue eyes absorbed the words written there. Slowly and gently he knelt beside the tomb which read-

_Gorge Remi,_

_A brave reporter,_

_Who was never afraid of the truth._

Slowly and gently Tintin placed a single red rose over the white marble stone. Snowy scooted close to him, moaning.

"I follow your path, father." Tintin whispered.

He stood up from the ground, wrapping the yellow overcoat around him. The sky was covered with thick cloud. It would rain soon. All the visitors became busy to find a shelter.

And one lonely person who kept walking, ignoring the impending rain throwing away his real name and embraced the long forgotten nickname given by his father.

 _Tintin, the boy reporter_.

**Wha! This is my first ever story for Tintin.**

**I always wondered about Tintin's past. So I thought to make up one for him. I like to take Herge's real name as his father which was inspired by an art I saw in Deviant art where Tintin is giving a flower to Herge's tomb.**

**I know it's not a great idea. Of course the narration is not the best.**


End file.
